07-31-2023, 09:50 AM
Quietude
Maybe, night’s
quietude
is right for us.
Moonlight washes
through the glass,
bathes the grass of
memory’s city
Florentine. Lawns
of the dead
in satin bedspreads.
Those also, who are here and gone,
time's odds and ends.
There you live, friend,
across in a villa from the park.
And afterwards,
when the moon weeps silently,
my longing knows
no bounds for thee.
I have edited this poem a couple of times already. I think it's good in some places, but needs to come together better. Floating / arbitrary conjunctions etc abound right now. Thanks.
Maybe, night’s
quietude
is right for us.
Moonlight washes
through the glass,
bathes the grass of
memory’s city
Florentine. Lawns
of the dead
in satin bedspreads.
Those also, who are here and gone,
time's odds and ends.
There you live, friend,
across in a villa from the park.
And afterwards,
when the moon weeps silently,
my longing knows
no bounds for thee.
I have edited this poem a couple of times already. I think it's good in some places, but needs to come together better. Floating / arbitrary conjunctions etc abound right now. Thanks.